Home somewhere?
by Lizella
Summary: At the end of the book, we must return to the world that was meant for us, to the family that was left behind. Set in between Inkheart and Inkblood but AU due to the second
1. Journey to nowhere

Authoress note: There seem to be absolutely no "InkheartTintenherz" fanfictions out here, which is a horrible shame really. Such a terrific book. I just animated my friend to read it. And such loveable (see below) characters. Okay, I had to write this, I am not Cornelia Funke, I wish I were. Review!

The man let the flames dance around him in endless circles, he played with them as if they were young dogs, that he had trained to behave instead of the burning element of fire.

"You must be a magician" the young boy was sitting cross-legged in the dirt and stared at the flames in amazement. "I will never be able to tame the fire, like you can" he sighed and looked at the redness with a hunger and longing in his young eager eyes.

Dustfinger looked at the boy although his mind was far away. How he longed to be back in his world. The fairies and elves, the forest and the wonderful smell. But he found that he was forgetting things: faces he could not remember, places he could not recall. And no matter how much he tried, the pictures of his home were diminishing.

This world was not his and neither was it Farids. Still the boy seemed all to happy to have left the world of the thieves. And where had he landed? Again on some unknown road with a thief. But the boy seemed content, playing with Gwin and trying to swallow the flame quite sucessfully.

"You have learned quickly." Dustfinger mumbled and the boy almost jumped, unused to praise. "Only because I had such a good teacher" he grinned cheekily and threw the burning stick into the air, only to catch it moments later with his other hand.

"Soon I will have taught you everything you need to know" Dustfinger took Gwin off his shoulder and placed him none to gently onto the floor. But Gwin only climbed his leg up again, seconds later. Why did the blasted animal always have to return?

Like the boy. Why had he come with him? After all, what was it Dustfinger could offer him?

"You should have stayed with Silvertongue and the girl" he told the boy, not too friendly "They can not have gotten too far, you can still find them. You like the girl, dont you?"

Farid blushed again. "Of course, I like Meggie."

But he had made a decision. "I choose to go with you. And that is what I will do!" he looked down "They are a real family now and I do not belong with them."

"I told you, neither do you belong with me!" Dustfingers words hurt him, although he had often heard (and felt) much worse from the other thieves.

"But we are so much alike. We both belong nowhere." Farid watched the older mans reaction. Dustfinger frowned.

"You could. Silvertongue and" he hesitated "Resa would surely adopt you."

To say her name hurt, now that he was reminded that she was Silvertongues wife, Meggies mother and not the mute woman he had spoken to in the darkness of the night. But he still carried her picture with him and when he had tried to throw it away, he was not capable of doing it.

"I do not want to." the boy refused "I would always argue with their aunt. And I do not want Meggie to be my sister." for his age he was surprisingly mature, although his cheeks reddened again slightly as they did when the girl was mentioned.

"Is it that bad for you, having to deal with me?" the chocolate-brown eyes questioned Dustfinger. One of the many reasons he had never wanted to have children.

"You are far too curious for your own good!" was not really an answer, but at least it kept the boy quiet as he continued playing with Gwin.

"You should go to sleep, I keep watch" Dustfinger broke the uneasy silence. "I am not tired" the boy yawned, but lay down. "Why do you want to be read back into your world so much? Even if you know that you could die there?" Decidedly too curious!

"This place is not mine. If I found someone who could read me back, I would go, no matter what would happen to me there. Do you not miss your home?" This was the most personal topic they had ever approached so far.

"No!" Farids memories were not worth missing, the stealing and constant running, having to do the bad jobs for the others, always being on the receiving end of his companions anger and never the one to get a fair share of the stolen goods.

"I like this world much more. So much that I have not seen, unknown places and all of it is waiting for me to be found. And I am free, I can go where I want and do what I like." His young eyes shimmered with an unconcealed passion.

"Just wait" Dustfinger frowned "That will pass. Now go to sleep." "But you have to wake me to change guard duty!" Farid yawned before closing his eyes. Gwin nestled onto his stomach and rolled into a small furball.

Dustfinger leaned against a tree and regarded the boy with something akin to envy. "He will learn" he whispered into the night.


	2. Home is where the heart is

Authoress note: Thanks so much for all of your encouraging comments. I really had not realized there are so many Dustfinger fans out there. It scares me, what about my image to fall for strange characters? Anyway, I like the title and somehow it fits even better after I posted this chapter. Although if I ever post a third, I will have to change it. Okay, I choose a rather different pov this time and to write her is somehow very easy. Hit the review button!

She awoke each night, her hands clinging tightly to the bedsheets. And each time she awaited to awaken to the harsh shoutings of her captors, to another day of working without any goal in sight. But when she found herself in a soft, comfortable bed in a warm and cozy room, it scared her even more.

There was a family that loved her now. An older sister who owned and read tons of books. Who treated them like her children, loved them in the place of what might have once been her own family. Eleanor, who tried to make her comfortable, talked to her and reassured her of support. But Eleanor could not understand, her temper got to her quickly and she did not see how afraid Resa was when books where read to her.

After being kept in one for so long, she no longer liked the books. Books tended to look so harmless, just pieces of papers stuck together, with black lines written onto them, books seemed so innocent and pure. But they were not. Books told of suffering, of death and sickness and evil creatures. And they were all the more dangerous as they could pose as harmless pass-time objects.

There was a husband, a man she was married to, who seemed like a complete stranger to her. Oh, she liked him, he was kind and gentle, his words were those of warmth and comfort. And when she looked at him, something within her stirred, wanted her to remember the time they had spent and enjoyed in each others company, the love they had shared. But it seemed like a million years ago, to her.

She knew that it was not Mos fault that he had read her into Inkheart. But if it had not been for his reading, for Silvertongues gift that had become her curse, she would never have had to leave her family. She could have led a happy family life instead of the pains she had endured. And she could still speak. She would still be the woman she had been so many years ago.

Of course she liked him, a lot, there was no denying it, but she was still getting to know him. So many things she wanted to express, to say, but she could not and her message did not get across. She so wanted him to understand, but he never would and she knew. But she tried.

There was a daughter she barely knew, a wonderful, beautiful, perfect young girl named Meggie. "Can I get you something, Mom?" "Can I help you, Mom?" Meggie loved the word "Mom", it sounded so foreign and yet so good, so real, like the way it should have always been. It was so easy to like her daughter, her curiosity and friendliness, her seated mannerism. A lot of her father was in her.

And Resa caught herself looking for traits of her own personality in her daughter. But she did not find them, except the obvious looks. It made her wonder, was that the way she had been like before? Had she been such a laughing, charming keen reader once?

All the time her memories seemed to hunt her down. The endless number of black-clad men who laughed at her. The other women, who knew and let her know that she did not belong.

Capricorn, in her mind his name stood for the devil himself, for pure and raw evilness. She had not known why he had taken a special liking to her, maybe it was the fact that she could not retort his cruel speeches or how he kept her hostage,knowing how she had been ripped from her family.

A young girl had once told her how lucky she was to be Capricorns favourite maid, that she received a sort of preferantial treatment. The girl had not understood, she did not know what it meant to be "his favourite maid". It meant pain.

Capricorns mother had not favoured her in any way, quite the contrary, she had shouted at her and told her off for everything she did. She even picked on her more than on any of the other girls. At times Resa had wondered, whether in a strange and twisted way, she was jealous of the attention her son had choosen to give this woman instead of his own mother.

Basta, playing with his knife, grinning in that sickening way. "If you do not behave, I could sharpen my knife a bit on your face" he had suggested, when she had tried to flee and he had brutally grabbed her. "But on second thought" he had taken hold of her jaw "your face is much too pretty to be wasted away like this. There is much better use for it." and he had pressed his cold, thin lips against hers, pressing her body onto his. She had bit him into the lip. "Damned woman!" Basta hissed and held his bleeding lower lip. "You will pay for that one!" and his knife was out again.

"Another woman who seems not too keen about your company. Does that not give you to think?" Afterwards she had wondered whether he was incredibly stupid or incredibly brave. At that moment she had only hoped that his bloodlust was not as high as Bastas.

"One would believe that you have learned your lesson by now, or did my dear souvenir not give you the right hint, Dustfinger?" Basta hissed at the stranger who unconsciously rubbed the three ugly scars in his beardy face.

In an instant a small furry animal appeared out of Dusfingers robes and bit Basta in the leg, who started cursing. A small piece of a mirror, fell out of his clothing and smashed onto the floor. It was just a mirror breaking on the cold stones and shedding into (how else could it be) thirteen small pieces, but Basta stared at it, as if he had never seen anything worse. A kind of panicking fear spread across his pale face and when he ran off, his arms were trembling. How the cruelest people tend to be afraid of the smallest things.

"Are you alright?" Dustfinger questioned and she nodded slowly. She was not sure what to make of him, but he was the first one who had been kind to her in this place. Of course, it could all be a show. One never knew.

It had taken time until she had learned to trust him. Dusfinger brought her food and even a necklace once. She was certain that he had stolen it from somewhere, but did not ask, it had been a gift and in a place of total and utter darkness, it held a meaning. She still wore the necklace, although she had not told anyone where she had gotten it from.

In return she taught him how to read. He was very keen on it, but not very good at learning, he tended to get angry each time he could not do it. She often wondered why he insisted on it, when it was so clear he detested having to decipher the meaning of printed words.

But what counted was, that he talked to her. Not shouted or ordered or hissed, but talked. Never anything personal, but he informed her of the going-ons in the village, of rumours or Bastas latest encounter with a black cat.

Resa suspected that Dusfinger was in love with her. He was kind to the other maids as well, who, with very few exceptions, preferred his company over Bastas but never took his words serious, but he never acted the way he did around her.

But she knew that he held something from her. That he knew much more than she did, a sort of guilty conscience he displayed. He never told her anything when she asked him. And she so needed to know about her life before, she knew he did and still he withheld her that information. And that was what kept the ever-seperating gap between them.

That and the feeling that came to her in those endless nights. The faint remembering of a pair of strong arms around her that she connected with warmth. The sound of giggling from a small girl. She knew that she had a family somewhere and that she missed them. And she wanted them to miss her as well. Even when she hoped they were happy.

And now she had found that family again, she was with them and they loved her and took care of her. But there was no completeness for her, no closure, she could not forget. And some part of her did not want to forget either.

"Dustfinger has stolen Inkheart" Mo had exclaimed after he found himself no longer in the possession of the book. "Of course, could we have expected any less from that fire-stick-eater!" Eleanor frowned. "Farid should have stayed with us instead" Meggie said and blushed slightly. So this was her daughters first crush on a boy. And she was glad to be there to see it.

She knew why Dustfinger had stolen Inkheart just as she now knew why he had insisted on her teaching him how to read. His only desire was still to return into his own world and to meet his fate there. And Resa felt guilty, because she did not want him to die, even if it doomed him to forever wander around their world to search for someone who could read him back into his world. She hoped Farid would take good care of him.

"Have you slept well, darling?" Mo, no, her husband, asked her and there was something touching and loveable in his concerned face. She nodded and smiled just slightly.

This was her world, Eleanor, Mo and Meggie, they were her family and she promised to try to get to know them again, she wanted to be the sister, wife and mother they deserved. But without forgetting what had been.


	3. Dangers of writing

Authoress: Soon I have starred all the characters, but I can not help it. Oh and as probably every reader of this story, I am so awaiting the release of "Inkblood", this September as I have gathered. But the third title of the trioligy really gives me the creeps "Inkdeath", heck, who is going to die? Okay, so r&r, you will recognize the pov soon enough anyway!

I had been content with my life before. When I was only a simple widower with a lovely daughter and her naughty but equally loveable children. And my mind had blossomed in writing. Creating stories in my head and putting them onto paper. Thinking up characters, giving them a face, a name and a personality. And believing they were all mine, that I had banished them onto paper and they would have to obey my sheer will.

What an old fool I am!

Out of all the books I have written, none ever came close to Inkheart – it was my best piece of work, a perfect story with the greatest of all villains.

Capricorn came to me one night in my wicked dreams, there he stood before me, a pale young man, almost a boy, blonde and with cold and empty eyes. He grinned sickeningly at me and seemed to order me to write his story. I gave him an appearance and I gave him a character, an endless cruelity and the will to rule, the ever-demanding wish for power and glory. And I gave him hate and spite, directed at the whole world and even at his own mother, whom he denied any right to claim him as her son.

But on paper I did not give him a past, only in my mind. The readers were not given the chance to understand him. I did not allow them to see the hurt and abused child, scolded and told off by his frustrated mother, the lonely and beautiful boy, I kept this part of him to myself. I will always regret not giving him this small streak of humanity. It was I who created him to be a cruel and heartless murderer!

Capricorn was my prime villain and he was such a good one. I could not bear killing him off, because I felt I would tear out a part of myself. Capricorn would live!

My wife, god bless her soul, tried to rise me from my sheets of paper, but without success. She told me that I was obsessed, that these characters had grabbed my attention much more than she ever could. And they did. You should understand, I loved my wife, but she was right, another world had taken hold of me and did so until the day she died.

Capricorns mother reminded me of my own. She was a frustrated old woman, her blossom long gone and all love in her heart turned to ice. But inspite of her cold and bossy exterieur, there was the need and longing she felt for her only child, the want of his respect and acknowledgement. He was her son after all and all she expected was the gratitude he ought to pay her for bearing him. But it never came. Her life was lonely and bossing the maids around gave her the only kind of wicked pleasure in her life.

Dustfinger was meant to be a clown, a happy and loveable character in comparision to the villains. But he turned out quite different.

My wife died, she had been sick for weeks but I had been too obsessed with my writing. The world I had created had taken me too far away from the real one, my wife had been suffering and I had not noticed. Or had I not cared? "Do you love your Capricorn more than you love me?" she had asked and I had not noticed her fading, ignored her coughing. "Of course not" I had answered absent-mindedly "he is not real." Oh I wish he had not been! And that she had been more real to me!

"It is not your fault" my daughter told me at our shared supper one week after the funeral. But I saw the look in her eyes, the silent reproach. "You killed her" her gaze told me and the eyes never lie!

"You should try to rest, put your work aside for some time, you can help me with the child." she offered. Only two weeks before she had given birth to a wonderful baby boy and it was I who had denied him the right to ever get to know his grandmother.

But I could not accept. I had to distract myself. I wanted to forget. I could not look at my daughter, she was the spiting image of her mother, the same hair, the same mannerism, the same lovely green eyes.

I sat down to write, in order to ignore the world that kept turning around me. And it influenced the book in a way I never could have imagined. Capricorn become a powerful ruler and he stood for all the evils that haunted my life, the devil that suceeded in winning over the decent people. Capricorn was the ugly and hurtful reality called fate.

And I transformed Dustfinger into someone, I had never intended him on becoming. I was sad and so he had to be as well. He had to suffer, because I did, his life should be harsh and cruel and unfair because mine seemed like that. I denied him any kind of love or happiness. His only friend was a furry and silent, biting animal with small devil horns. Yes, he should be alone, he should have to grovel and entertain Capricorn and suffer.

And after I had a terrible row with my daughter, who accused me of not even visiting her mothers grave and only caring about words on paper instead of my own daughter and grandchild, I killed him off. It is too easy for a writer to end the life of one of his creatures.

Dustfinger had to die just as he had lived - alone. He died in a futile attempt to rescue his pet, his only friend and he was killed by an unknown servant of Capricorn. There was nothing glorious about his death, it was quick and in his world it was meaningless. I gave him noone who would mourn for him, he did not even get a grave.

But I cried when the dagger was slammed into his backside. It was the first time I had allowed myself to grieve, not only for my deceased wife, but for myself. My daughter had vowed to never speak to me again and at that moment I was Dustfinger and I believed I would die just the way he had - alone. But I had deserved it after all, he had not. But he was not real or so I thought.

Still life got better somehow, I apologized, more like grovelled, to my daughter and she teary-eyed accepted her old father back in her family. I spent almost all of my time at their house and later the children would always come over to my house to play. They were a nuisance, especially Pip, who was the trouble on two legs, but I adored them and loved them with all my heart. I was content.

Until this man and his daughter came. Of course I did not believe them, when they told me that the man had read Capricorn, his mother and Dustfinger out of my story. But for a joke it seemed quite too weird and they seemed very desperate and not amused at all. And they could even proove it, Dustfinger was just outside. I wanted, no I needed to see him, although I feared to face him. What could I possibly say?

He looked exactly the way I had imagined him except for the three ugly scars across his face. I had not intended of him being good-looking in any way and he certainly was not. But it pained me to see him, almost as much as it fascinated me. So often had I imagined what it would be like to actually meet my characters, to see and talk to them.

But this was not what I had intended on feeling, on doing. I was so absorbed, I wanted to reach out to him, to assure myself that he was real, that he was my Dustfinger, but he shoved me back and I fell to the floor. I felt his anger, distrust and hate, but worse, I knew he was right. I would have detested this man who believed that he could play god with his life as well, if I had been him.

I could have given him a happy life, he could have found a girl and have children, he could have gotten a decent job and stop having to work for Capricorn. I could have let him live.

But I had not done that, instead I had made him a creature that impersonated all my sadness , grief, regret and anger. Depression had written him. I had made his life miserable and then I had ended it the same way. I had pretended to be a god who toyed with his beings.

And I felt a small twinge of relief that he was here and not in the book. At least he could survive in this world. If he went back he would die. But still he wanted to return.

A bad conscience is not something that leaves you, it gnaws, aches and does not intend on passing, a pain that remains. I definitely had one. Maybe that made me human!

Not a dream, but a nightmare was what followed. An adventure I could have done without, it made me feel even more tired and incredibly old. Being locked up, caged in a cell of my own creature. Without the girl, Meggie, I would probably have gone mad.

How can an inventor hate his own creation? A father his own son? A writer an idea that sprang up in his mind? But I did, I hated Capricorn. I detested his mother. I pitied Dustfinger.

And I did the only thing I was capable of, good at, although I had never hated it more than now. I had to change the story, put an end to Capricorn and let his men vanish. Restless nights and countless thoughts were spent on figuring out how exactly I could achieve all I had to and time was sitting in my neck.

"Read this instead of the book" I told Meggie and gave her the papers. She did not understand, even though she is a very clever girl, but she trusted me and accepted. How much she reminded me of my daughter. And alone in my cell I prayed for all to turn out alright, for the story to have a happy ending.

But no story really ever ends.

The love for my creatures lingers on. Although I am glad that Capricorn is gone, I do hope that somewhere that is not here, best in a very far away galaxy, he might be fine, for all my hate I did not wish his demise, an inventor can not kill off its creation, it would break him.

His mother has managed to escape and I often wonder where she has gone. I imagine her roaming around somewhere with that knife-loving Basta and I know her well enough not to underestimate her, she will return. But in a way I am her father just as well as I am Capricorns and I want this Basta to maybe show her the small amount of respect she should have earned from her son.

Dustfinger has left, he has stolen the book and took his flight in the night, like the thief I created him to be. I am glad that Arabian boy, Farid if I remember correctly, is with him. I try to have hope for him. Maybe he can become more than the miserable man I wrote him to be, maybe he can learn to accept a son when fate has given him one.

I have rewritten his story. Not that he does know, or ever will, for I very much doubt that someone could ever read him back. But if by some miracle it can be achieved, then he will be surprised to find a loving home and meet a girl that resembles this Resa. And he will live.

It was the last paper that I have ever used to write a story. My ink bottle and writing papers are gone now, my daughter calls me paranoid, but she does not know. After all, how could she understand when I had just taken an unplanned trip to a lecturing in Canada?

I fear writing, who knows, the characters could appear out of the sheets and haunt me.

And when Pip asks me to tell him a story, it only features happy and lucky people, that live without fear and there are no villains. My grandson considers them boring and wants the characters to die or at least suffer. But I only stroke his wild curls and tell him that there is enough death and suffering in the world already, without me adding to it.


	4. The boy with the knife

Authoress note: Shocked to see how many Dustfinger lovers are out there, scares me to see that I have to share him. I know, most of you wanted him again, but I simply had to write about our two escaped "villains" this time, so I finally got all the characters. It was quite scary to see how easy I can slip into Bastas personality. Let the cruelity begin!

The old hag, was really getting on his nerves. Something was seriously wrong with her, because even when her son had treated her like dirt all her life, she still kept talking about him, like he had been the most loving child in the world.

It was even worse when she sobbed pathetically, well, at least she had only done that twice so far. But Basta had not liked it, it had made him feel nervous and even helpless. He should have slit her throat then.

Why she kept running after him, he never knew. Probably because he was a sucessful hunter and provided her with food. Still, she could have gone to simply knock somewhere, surely those naïve people would want to help and old, lonely hag.

When he showed up on someones doorstep, the inhabitants usually critically looked him down and said they had nothing, before closing the door. That is, if they did not start screaming and shouting at the sight of his bloody knife.

Who needed them anyway? He preferred to have no company, but the old hag still followed him into nowhere. Damned hard to get rid of her.

After he had managed to kill a young deer and they roasted it on a fire she had told him "Well done, son". And he should have felt angry, he was noones "son" after all, what right did the old wench have to call him this? But instead it had filled him with some sense of longing. It had made him weak. Of course she had shut up as soon as his knife was next to her neck. She had not called him "son" once more, since then. And he even missed it.

Basta had never known his real family, Capricorn had taken him in, when he was still a very young boy and he had trained him to be what he had become. And he had been grateful to his master, who had taught him how to survive. Even if it meant slavery.

Every being holds a passion, a sort of weakness, and his had been women. He had discovered his lust for them at a very young age and the sight of the pretty maids Capricorn kept, had always roused something in him. It had been easy to get most of them as well, although he had noticed the way they looked at him. He knew that he was young and handsome and held quite a position as Capricorns right hand man. Still they did not enjoy him, looked to to floor when he took them, screamed in pain and not in lust, some even sobbed. Pathetic and still he wondered why.

The maids seemed to like the damned Dustfinger much more, they talked to him and laughed at his stupid fire tricks. That was something that puzzled him, after all, he was much better-looking and younger, more muscular and still they detested his touch.

Then a new maid was brought in, she was just on the step to becoming a woman and her youth made her even prettier. He did not remember her name, only that it hat an "A" at the beginning, but he could still picture her body. Basta wanted her and Dusfinger told him to "keep his dirty fingers off her". But metal had proven to be quicker than fire this time and Basta still smiled when he thought about the dear souvenir he had given that self-called protector of innocence. He had carved himself as a memory into the other mans face.

This Resa had just been one of many maids, although even if mute (which was something good and handy in his opinion), very pretty, but unfortunately also not as stupid as women ought to be.

Every being has a fear, something that scares the wits out of them and that ridicules them into small quivering children. Fear is even more of a weakness than a passion is.

Never would Basta forget the old gypsy woman, who had cursed him, after he had taken her jewellry was well as her granddaughter. The old wrinkled mouth that spoke those unforgettable words "One hundred omens of death will you seen, signs of bad luck in every form and when those hundred have passed you will meet your fatal end." Those words had haunted him since then. They were his constant and detested companion.

Black cats crossing from the left, breaking mirrors, the number thirteen, spilled salt – each and every one a sign of his oncoming death. His fear made him even more aware of them, until he saw omens in every sight he met. And he feared them and he counted, he tried to avoid them, but bad luck kept following him.

Basta feared his own death, as much as he did not care about that of others. And his countings haunted him, because he had encountered 96 omens of death so far. Only four more. The mantra that unforgiveable kept repeating itself in his head.

Those who knew had gladly used it against him, like Dustfinger who had enjoyed taunting him with his weakness. And Basta did not like being made fun of. He had proven his point later. It was his own personal fear and noone should dare presenting it to him as his weakness and ridicule.

Once the old hag had tried to boss him around, snapping at him as if he were one of her obedient maids. But his beautiful knife, his most precious and only posession, in front of her wrinkled face had indeed done well as a warning. She had been much politer to him after that and he was certain of her respect.

Of course he wished that she were a pretty young thing instead of Capricorns mother, but wishes just were no horses. At least she was no distraction in that form.

And so they journeyed on into the nothingness. The old hag depending on his skills as a hunter and survivor. Basta found he liked the completely new feeling of being needed.


End file.
